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Sympathy Work: Identity and Emotion Management

Among Victim-Advocates and Counselors

Kenneth H. Kolb

Published online: 3 November 2010# Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2010

Abstract Advocates and counselors who assist victims of domestic violence and sexual

assault often claim a moral identity that depends, in part, on their ability to sympathize with

their clients. However, when their clients behave in ways that staff members perceive as

“difficult ” (i.e., lie, return to their abusers, break rules, express anger at those trying to help

them, or fail to show up for appointments), feelings of sympathy can begin to wane —

creating a moral identity dilemma. Data collected from participant observation and in-depth

interviews outline four generic processes that advocates and counselors engage in toovercome this dilemma. These findings highlight the interdependent nature of identity and

emotion management and contribute to previous scholarship on how those who claim a

moral identity negotiate feelings that run counter to their identity code.

Keywords Identity . Emotions . Domestic violence . Sexual assault . Victim-advocacy

Introduction

Christina sighed, leaned back in her chair, and began to describe the behavior of one client

she characterized as particularly “difficult.” Initially, she had helped the client regain

custody of her daughter — only to watch her relapse into illegal drug use and lose custody

again. Later, Christina admitted her back into the shelter on the condition that she meet with

a counselor and a social worker — appointments the client made, but did not keep. Christina

knew that healing from domestic violence took time and was willing to forgive the client,

but her patience for this client was beginning to wane. Finally, after learning that the client

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119

DOI 10.1007/s11133-010-9177-6

This article was accepted by the former editor-in-chief Javier Auyero. The current editor, David Smilde, has

approved of its publication.

K. H. Kolb (*)

Department of Sociology, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613, USA

e-mail: [email protected]



was using drugs in the shelter, Christina told her that if she did it again, she would be asked

to leave:

It can be frustrating....[S]he came in, we did the screening, and we took her back in.

And we said, “okay, we’re going to start over.” And, she may have stayed a week....

She started breaking all the rules in the shelter. She ended up leaving and she never...

she didn’t even get her things, she just left.

Looking back, Christina remembered that she used to feel differently about her work and

her clients. Indulging in a bit of nostalgia, she said “I want to feel that feeling again.”

Advocates and counselors who assist victims of domestic violence (DV) and sexual

assault (SA) consider themselves good people who help others in vulnerable situations.

However, their identity is dependent, in part, on their ability to sympathize with their

clients. When their clients behave in ways that staff members define as “difficult ”— lie,

return to their abusers,1 break rules, express anger at those trying to help them, or fail to

show up for appointments — they break norms regarding how victims should behave

(Holstein and Miller 1990) and make it more difficult for staff members to see them as

innocent and blameless (Clark 1987, 1997; Dunn 2001, 2002; Loseke 1992). As a result,

staff members may find themselves unable to feel and display sympathy for the same

people they have chosen to help, thus creating an identity dilemma.

Advocates and counselors in DV and SA agencies can point towards their work with

victims as evidence of their “moral identity” (a social role — such as mother or pastor — that

defines someone as a good person) (Kleinman 1996, p. 5; see also Katz 1975). Like social

workers (Loseke and Cahill 1986), their job indicates that they are caring people.

Additionally, the troubling emotions they experience —

anger, fear, loss, and pain (Campbell2002) — serve as additional evidence of their capacity to care. However, in some cases, it is

the lack of a particular emotion (sympathy) that can be the most troubling of all. Their

ability to feel and display sympathy for victims sets them apart as good people. Without

sympathy, advocates and counselors have trouble adhering to their “identity code”—“a set

of rules or enabling conventions for signifying [an] identity” (Schwalbe and Mason-

Schrock 1996, p. 125). In this paper, I outline this moral identity dilemma and describe four

ways that advocates and counselors are able to overcome it.

Intersection of Emotion and Identity Work

For advocates and counselors, sympathy indicates not only an understanding of how their

clients feel (empathy), but an additional recognition that their clients’ “hurt or anguish or

worry” (Clark 1997, p. 44) is undeserved and unfair. As a result, “empathy alone is

necessary but not sufficient for sympathy” (emphasis in original) (Clark 1997, p. 35).

Feeling sympathy (and displaying those feelings through words and gestures) confirms their

moral stance relative to abuse: they believe it is painful and wrong. Consequently, an

inability to display sympathy puts their claims to a moral identity in jeopardy and

potentially means losing access to the“

psychic and material rewards”

(Schwalbe and

1 I use the label “abuser ” rather than “ batterer ” because this term allows for a more comprehensive depiction

of people who control, oppress, and hurt others. I also use the term “victim,” although there is a debate

among DV and SA agencies about whether to use “victim” or “survivor.” Staff used “survivor ” on occasion,

but usually to refer to a former client who had succeeded in achieving their goals. Staff also used “survivor ”

to move away from the stigma associated with “victim” (Dunn 2005).

102 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



Mason-Schrock 1996, p. 126) that accompany being recognized as a caring and

compassionate person. Because victim advocacy and counseling typically yields meager

earnings and public prestige, a moral identity offers significant symbolic compensation for

selfless work.

The emotion and identity work of advocates and counselors has consequences for their clients, too. If clients cannot elicit sympathy from staff members at DV and SA agencies,

they are even less likely to do so among the wider public. Advocates and counselors

operate as “moral entrepreneurs” (Becker 1963, pp. 147 – 163) who signify their clients’

worthiness for help. Their displays of sympathy serve as evidence that their clients’

victimization is “no fault of [their] own” (Loseke 2000, p. 48) and that — despite their

“difficult ” behavior — they are “innocent and therefore blameless” (Dunn 2001, p. 288; see

also Leisenring 2006). Clients who cannot adhere to the behavioral expectations for victims

(Best 1997; Dunn and Powell-Williams 2007) not only threaten their access to sympathy

(and services) in DV and SA agencies (Loseke 1992), they also risk having their claims

denied in the criminal justice system (Dietz and Martin 2007; Dunn 2001).

Advocates and counselors want to sympathize with their clients and see themselves as

caring and compassionate people. However, claiming a moral identity does not guarantee

that others will accept those claims (Goffman 1959). Consequently, we can expect

advocates and counselors to engage in “identity work ” (Snow and Anderson 1987) to

project an image of themselves to others, gauge how others interpret their identity, and

tailor their responses accordingly. The purpose of such “work ” is to “establish, change, or

lay claim to meanings as particular kinds of people” (Schwalbe 1996, p. 105). Yet, identity

work is not a singular event or an individual project. Schwalbe and Mason-Shrock argue

that identity work is primarily a group process, or “

something that people do together ”

(1996, p. 114) on a continuing basis. Thus, if the identity code of advocates and counselors

entails offering sympathy to their clients, we can expect them to work together to remind

one another how they “should” be feeling — especially if they find their sympathy reserves

lacking. I argue that this process includes both identity and emotion management.

Typically, identity dilemmas are analyzed from the perspective of contradictory behavior

that appears, at least on the surface, to be inauthentic; or, in Erickson ’s terms, displays a

lack of commitment to “one’s self-values” (1995, p. 127). As a result, when a person

behaves in ways that run counter to their values, we can expect them either to alter their

behavior or offer “accounts” (Scott and Lyman 1968) to explain any perceived

inconsistencies. Yet, feeling the “wrong” way can pose a potentially greater threat to one’sidentity claims than contradictory behavior. Inappropriate emotional displays may not be

obvious to outsiders, but insiders know different. Those who share an identity are especially

attuned to subtle inconsistencies within the group. As a result, group members may “ police”

one another ’s emotions “to ensure the integrity and survival” of their shared identity

(Schwalbe and Mason-Schrock 1996, p. 127). Hochschild defines this process as aligning

one’s emotions with the prevailing subcultural “feeling rules” (1983, pp. 118 – 119). These

rules outline which emotions “real” members should feel under particular circumstances.

Smith and Kleinman, for example, in their study of socialization in medical school,

highlighted the strategies students used to manage away“

unsettling reactions to patientsand procedures” (1989, p. 57) in order to feel like professionals.

Previous scholarship has outlined the ways that organizations who hire and train workers

based on their claims to a moral identity sometimes ask more of them than they are able to

accomplish. In Copp’s (1998) study of a sheltered workshop for people with developmental

disabilities, she found that instructors were often unable to infuse their clients with positive

feelings given the structural conditions of their job (boring, repetitious work beset by long

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 103



periods of “down time”). In Kleinman’s (1996) study of a holistic health center, the

volunteers for the organization saw their sacrifices for the organization (taking extra shifts,

sometimes without pay) as indicators of their moral identity; yet, they became angry and

frustrated at their lack of influence compared to the paid practitioners. In both these studies,

we can identify these predicaments as rooted in organizational arrangements that taxmembers’ ability to feel “good” about their work and themselves. They responded to these

problems in patterned ways. Copp’s (1998) instructors peacefully increased their control

over their clients — with limited success; and Kleinman’s (1996) volunteers individualized

their frustrations rather than question unequal arrangements in the organization. Both

solutions managed — but did not completely solve — their problem. One reason for this was

that their options were constrained by their desire to maintain their claims to a moral

identity.

Although frustration at coworkers or daily tasks can make it difficult to accomplish a

moral identity, a lack of sympathy for clients can present an even more challenging

scenario. Joffe found that abortion counselors, despite their initial “sympathetic pose toward

client groups” (Joffe 1978, p. 113), became angered by cynical clients and repeat aborters.

The emergence of such unexpected emotions shows how “clients hold considerable

leverage in determining whether such work can be experienced by counselors as morally

suspect or ‘heroic’” (1978, p. 119). Wolkomir and Powers’ (2007) study, also of abortion

clinic staff members, described how difficult patients evoked undesired feelings that

challenged their perceptions of themselves. Although “easy” patients were a source of

satisfaction, “hostile,” “ambivalent,” and “hard” patients (2007, pp. 162 – 166) made it

difficult for staff to “feel like good helpers” (2007, p. 165). As a result, staff responded by

“detaching

”emotionally and

“ building boundaries

”around the most troubling aspects of

their interactions (2007, pp. 162 – 164). Their experiences show that “[h]elping others can be

a risky business” (2007, p. 155), especially when it comes to affirming a moral identity in

the absence of sympathy.

This study builds upon past research that has outlined the ways that those who claim a

moral identity overcome their particular identity dilemmas. Wolkomir (2001, 2006) showed

how gay and ex-gay Christian men were able to learn how to “feel like a good Christian and to

manage all of the negative emotions that arose during the learning process” (2006, p. 119) of

accepting their new “selves.” Group leaders engaged these men in “emotion work ” (Hochschild

1979, 1983) “to teach the men how and what to feel” (Wolkomir 2006, p. 120) until they

believed their emotional experiences were consistent with those of authentic Christians. Yet,what if these men had been unable to evoke the feelings necessary to affirm their identity?

Holden’s (1997) study of homeless shelter volunteers partly answers this question. When

required to enforce arbitrary policies — work they interpreted as inconsistent with their moral

identity as “egalitarians”— the volunteers responded by re-fashioning their clients’ identities

as immature and in need of structure. This strategy allowed them to justify their strict

enforcement of shelter rules (such as requiring “lights out ” at 11 p.m. and confiscating food in

bedrooms) and still see themselves as selfless and kind people. Yet, Holden’s study does not

focus on how the volunteers elicited the emotions needed to manage this identity dilemma.

My paper attempts to extend the analysis of these studies to outline four generic processes whereby those who claim a moral identity can affirm their identity when

confronted with an absence of sympathy. As expected, generating additional sympathy for

victims is relatively easy, even when they behave in “difficult ” ways. The participants in

this study did this in two ways: one, by offering accounts to deflect blame away from their

clients; and two, by reconstructing their clients’ “victim-biographies” to make up for

missing information that could justify their “difficult ” behavior. When these strategies

104 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



failed, the advocates and counselors struggled to reconcile their lack of sympathy with their

moral identity. They responded by — one — enforcing a micro-hierarchical relationship

between themselves and their clients as well as by — two — calling attention to their clients’

inappropriate emotional displays. These two refusal strategies allowed them to frame their

denial of sympathy as in the best interests of either the client, the reputation of the agency,or the DV and SA movement as a whole. By engaging in these four processes, the

advocates and counselors in this study were able to point to either their generation or

refusal of sympathy as in indicator of their moral identity.

Methods and Setting

The data in this paper are part of a larger ethnographic project. To learn about work inside a

DV and SA agency, I first trained as a volunteer at a nearby agency for 35 hours during

nights and weekends over a period of 4 weeks (in addition to two, half-day “shadow”

shifts). After training, I answered the crisis hotline and met with walk-in clients once a

week for 3 months.

Through the contacts I established during my volunteer work, I secured an informational

interview with a similar, although much larger, agency. I requested permission to study staff

members while they interacted with each other and clients. All staff members responded

positively to my request. They were eager to share their experiences with someone

interested in their agency (partly because they found it difficult to find people outside the

agency willing to talk to them about their work). They granted me nearly unlimited access

and allowed me to take part in client sessions, observe staff meetings, and ask questions asthey worked. I also participated in a number of activities: over a period of 14 months at the

agency, I answered phones, made photocopies, ran errands, and on a few occasions I

accompanied clients in court to seek signatures from a judge for their protective orders.

Stopping Abuse in Family Environments (SAFE)2 is an agency that helps victims of DV

and SA. At the time, June 2005 to August 2006, the agency had an annual budget of nearly

one million dollars (with 80% from municipal, state, and federal grants; and 20% from

private donations) and served a local population of roughly 60,000 people within a 700

square mile area. Highly regarded by neighboring social service organizations, the agency

won a regional award for outstanding service the year this study was conducted. At SAFE,

most clients were white, working-class women, although I observed SAFE advocates assist African American and Latina women, as well as those from middle- and upper-class

backgrounds. Men were welcome to seek services, but these instances were rare. Also,

cases that involved DV outnumbered those of SA.

The agency employed between 25 and 30 people who offered a variety of client services:

a crisis hotline, court advocacy, counseling, support groups, and an emergency shelter. Off-

site services also included an educational intervention program for abusers, community

awareness projects, and a youth educational program. The data for this study come from the

advocates and counselors in the main office and the shelter (all of whom I refer to when I

use the label“

staff member ”

).I visited SAFE (and their satellite offices) an average of once a week, for 14 months. As

a participant and observer, I was present in the main office, shelter, or court about 7 hours

per visit. Staff members introduced me to clients as someone who was researching the

agency and shadowing them in the office. I took notes throughout the day (which I

2 All names of organizations, places, and people are pseudonyms.

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 105



expanded and typed immediately afterwards). I also conducted 14 interviews, averaging

between 75 and 90 minutes each, using a semi-structured interview guide (Lofland et al.

2006). Interview questions probed staff member ’s understanding of their jobs, their clients,

and the emotions they encountered in the course of their work. I digitally recorded and

transcribed each interview.All questions and observations during fieldwork were guided by an inductive, grounded

theory approach (Charmaz 2006). I was constantly “looking and listening...participating

and asking” (Lofland et al. 2006, p. 18) in order to identify themes as they emerged. To do

this, I used a “theoretical sampling” method (Corbin and Strauss 2007, p. 143), which

allowed me to follow up on cases involving clients labeled “difficult ” and seek out

opportunities to ask staff members how these cases made them feel. Operating from a

symbolic interactionist perspective (Blumer 1969; Mead 1934), I paid close attention to the

meanings staff members ascribed to their actions, including how those meanings were subject to

refinement and contestation during interactions. Once it became clear that staff members were

able to generate and refuse sympathy to some clients yet still claim a moral identity, I began

constructing “memos” (Charmaz 2006) to analyze these data early in the project.

The Emotional Subculture at SAFE

The advocates and counselors at SAFE knew that signing on with the agency meant joining

a unique “emotional subculture” (see Clark 1997, pp. 185 – 193; Scott 2005) that outlined

the “rules about the feelings workers should and should not, feel and display ” (Martin et al.

2007, p. 46). Yet, policy alone cannot dictate how much staff members will sympathizewith their clients in everyday interactions, as Clark explains:

Many occupations have their own rules for creating sympathy margins. The rules may

be imposed by management, yet workers also shape and modify the rules informally

as they interact with clients or customers and each other (1997, p. 185).

As a result, the feeling rules at SAFE were shaped by forces inside and outside the

agency. Below, I outline three primary influences: essentialist notions regarding women’s

emotionality, DV and SA agency policies, and dominant cultural assumptions regarding

victims’ claims to sympathy. These were not the only factors, by any means; but the

influences of these three factors were the most visible when observing staff members’

emotional displays in practice.

All of the advocates and counselors at SAFE were women. As a result, an absence of

sympathy could jeopardize not only their moral identity, but their claims to femininity as

well. Women are typically cast as “emotional experts” (Martin et al. 2007, p. 46) whose job

it is — paid or unpaid — to manage the feelings of others (Hochschild 1983). These norms

are so pervasive that Shields argues that “emotionality” is the “master stereotype” for all

women (2002, p. 45). Although sociologists of emotion disagree with this essentialist logic,

the women of SAFE did not. They embraced the folk belief that “women are ‘ by nature’

more sensitive, understanding, and compassionate than men”

(Clark 1997, p. 51). Theyroutinely referred to these qualities as an asset in this line of work — meaning that an

inability to sympathize with clients was especially troubling for them on two levels: as staff

members and as women.

On paper, the feeling rules at SAFE — what to feel, under which conditions, and to what

extent (Hochschild 1983) — were set by organizational policy: a victim deserves sympathy,

106 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



no matter what, and “difficult ” behavior is a product of abuse, thus “[h]er unreasonable

behavior is not her fault ” (Loseke 1992, p. 22). Historically, DV and SA agencies have

played a critical role in constructing this image of abused women (Martin 2005). These

agencies have painted an image of victims as “ pure, innocent, blameless, and free of

problems (before the abuse)” (Lamb 1999, p. 108) whose victimhood is “morallyunambiguous” (Best 1997, p. 13). Davies, Lyon and Monti-Catania (1998) argue that this

depiction of victimhood was essential to persuade community leaders to accept and support

the establishment of battered women’s shelters and rape crisis centers. Kelly, the SAFE co-

director in charge of hiring, designed her hiring and training policies around this

constructed image of victimhood. She trained staff members to forgive clients their failures

on the basis that their behavior was a product of being deprived of “ power and control”

over their lives. This rationale, common among agencies like SAFE who adopt a “Duluth”

model of victim services (Pence and Paymar 1993), emphasizes patience and compassion

until the root cause of “difficult ” behavior — abuse — ceases. In practice, this meant

screening out applicants in the hiring process Kelly believed were unwilling to adopt a

feminist analysis of abuse as a social, rather than individualized phenomenon. To gauge

whether job candidates were capable of a feminist understanding of DV and SA, she looked

for particular characteristics in the interviewing process: “I’m looking to see if they have

the passion for [this line of work], if they come from a really committed, dedicated place,

where they know this is hard work....And that they have compassion for people, in

general...[and] are non-judgmental.” To stay at SAFE, new hires had to convince Kelly that

they were, in her words, “warm and compassionate and understanding” people. There were

practical reasons for this. Kelly believed that offering clients a continual flow of sympathy

kept them coming back —

even when they made mistakes. At the same time, Kelly alsotrained staff members that too much sympathy in the face of defiant or overly “difficult ”

behavior could prove counterproductive and non-“empowering.” Given these conflicting

instructions, it is unsurprising that SAFE staff members were occasionally unsure of how to

respond to “difficult ” clients.

Decisions regarding sympathy in the SAFE office were also shaped by dominant cultural

portrayals of victims and how much sympathy they deserve. Unlike DV and SA agency

policies, the wider public “still holds the victim responsible for preventing abuse or leaving

the relationship” (Berns 2004, p. 28). Outside of agencies like SAFE, victims are still

characterized by “low self-esteem, passiveness, and weakness” (Berns 2004, p. 27). Lamb

found that lawyers, judges, and police officers expect victims to be “ polite, composed,deferential” (1999, p. 118), and Dunn (2002) and Konradi (1996) found that victims who

defy these norms risk having their legal claims dismissed. SAFE staff members often

critiqued these popular notions, but their interactions with clients revealed that they were

not entirely immune to them. Clark sums up these dominant cultural feeling rules when she

states that even those most eager to sympathize with others still have limits; they are “are

nice — up to a point ” (Clark 1997, p. 183). They may be quicker to offer “excuses and

justifications” (Clark 1997, p. 183) for others’ “difficult ” behavior, but they still set

boundaries and expectations for them. Although SAFE staff members were more forgiving

of “

difficult ”

behavior than most, their patience was not infinite.Given the competing influences on the emotional subculture at SAFE, it is understandable

that the advocates and counselors occasionally had trouble displaying unlimited amounts of

sympathy for each and every client. In the cases of particularly “difficult ” clients, they

confronted multiple and sometimes contradictory sets of feeling rules — as women, as SAFE

staff members, and as constituents of the prevailing dominant culture.

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 107



The Moral Identity Dilemma of Advocates and Counselors

“Difficult ” behavior created a problem for the advocates and counselors of SAFE. They

faced an emotional dilemma — i.e., experiencing “‘forbidden’ emotions that they are unable

to manage” (Martin et al. 2007, p. 46) — which had consequences for their identity. On the onehand, they were called upon to display sympathy unconditionally. On the other hand, they

feared that unlimited gifts of sympathy, no matter how “difficult ” their clients behaved, could

do more harm than good for their clients, the reputation of the agency, and the DV and SA

movement as a whole. When clients exceeded their limits on “difficult ” behavior, SAFE staff

members were left to create their own strategies to manage this moral identity dilemma.

Complicating this task, policies at agencies like SAFE generally warn against “tough

love” strategies (such as scolding or reprimanding) on the basis that those actions mimic the

callous or infantilizing behavior of abusers (Martin 2005). Many DV and SA agencies

nation-wide (including the one in this study) avoid intervening or telling their clients what

to do. Borrowing a concept from “Duluth model” intervention programs for abusers, staff

members in this study defined abuse as the act of denying another person “ power and

control” over their life (Pence and Paymar 1993). Under this rationale, staff members

believed that demanding their clients obey demands (no matter how well intentioned) was

counter-productive, harmful, and non-“empowering.” As a result, it was frowned upon at

SAFE to tell clients how to behave.

Being on friendly, egalitarian terms with their clients helped the advocates and

counselors derive satisfaction and meaning from their work. They wanted to see their

advocacy and counseling as more than just a “ job.” Heather, an advocate, was outspoken in

this regards:“

I know what I do and I love what I do. And it ’s my calling in life.

”Melissa, a

counselor, echoed her sentiments: “I never have to worry about what I’m doing for the

world. You know, on my death bed, I don’t have to think back and say, ‘what did I do?’” At

SAFE, their moral identity meant they were willing to make sacrifices for their clients. For

example, when I mentioned to Heather that a local defense lawyer had subpoenaed

confidential files at another DV and SA agency, she responded that she would defy such a

court order (if given the opportunity). Jesse, overhearing the conversation, nodded in

affirmation. When I joked with Heather that I would not write down her answer in case my

fieldnotes were ever subpoenaed, she responded proudly: “You can write it down. I don’t

care. I’ll go to jail for it.” Following Heather ’s lead, Jesse announced “me too.” Staff

members positioned themselves as different — more caring, more compassionate — thanoutsiders. As a result, generating sympathy for “difficult ” clients was the first, and most

obvious, solution when moral identity dilemmas arose.

Generating Sympathy

In most cases, staff members had little difficulty sympathizing with clients. Knocking on

the office door or calling the crisis hotline almost always entitled clients to a provisional

victim status, guaranteeing them enough sympathy to withstand most of their “

difficult ”

behavior. As Holstein and Miller (1990) explain, being a victim typically shields one from

blame for most, if not all, of one’s mistakes. This was typically the case at SAFE: staff

members did not expect all clients to be perfect. Over 14 months, in private interviews and

discussions, they identified few clients as “ideal.” Many clients behaved in ways that the

staff members described (in private) as unhealthy and counterproductive, yet staff members

were usually able to see past small missteps.

108 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



Clients whose “difficult ” behavior persisted, however, taxed staff members’ capacity for

sympathy. In response, the advocates and counselors sought out ways to generate additional

sympathy for them. Of course, generating particular emotions was not their explicit goal.

Rather, they saw keeping the flow of sympathy open as part of their job. They believed that

listening to clients and acknowledging their point of view helped create positive workingrelationships, thus making it more likely their clients would return to seek more services if

needed. When analyzed from the perspective of identity and emotion management,

however, we can recognize that this process also served a latent function: generating

sympathy for clients helped the advocates and counselors affirm their moral identity.

The following processes of sympathy generation are representative of staff members’

interactions with “difficult ” clients. Below, I present these strategies (deflecting blame and

reconstructing clients’ victim-biographies) as distinct categories, but there was considerable

overlap between them; in some cases, staff members employed both strategies at once.

Deflecting Blame Elsewhere

Of all the strategies to generate sympathy for their clients, deflecting blame was the easiest

and most readily available. As long as staff members could identify an external cause for

their clients’ behavior, they could help their clients accomplish an “innocent and blameless”

identity (Dunn 2001) worthy of additional sympathy.

Abusers were typically the first target for blame. Yet, this became more difficult when

clients returned to their abusers. Doing so placed staff members in an uncomfortable

position. On the one hand, they saw their job as “empowering” their clients and supporting

their decisions —

not telling them what to do. On the other hand, staff members worried that some clients might not recognize the potential risks involved. These findings are consistent

with what Dunn and Powell-William found: “despite training specifically designed to

recognize battered women’s agency and to honor all the choices they make (including

“staying”), victim advocates have considerable difficulty doing this” (2007, pp. 977 – 978).

One of Cathleen’s clients, for example, developed a pattern of leaving her abuser and then

returning to him a few weeks later. Cathleen (an advocate) became frustrated. After

expressing her dismay to the other advocates in the office that day (Heather and Jesse),

Cathleen still managed to deflect blame away from her client and towards the abuser.

Cathleen explained to her office mates: “[S]he keeps coming back [to SAFE]. And I just get

frustrated. Not so much at her, but really it is with him...[that] he has that level of control.”

Cathleen was able to generate sympathy for the client by placing the blame “with him.” Her

coworkers in the office that day also helped Cathleen in this regard by reminding her that

abusers often exert financial control over their victims and cut off avenues of support from

their families, making it harder for them to escape (and stay away). This client was poor,

like most SAFE clients. Thus, a financial explanation was easy for Cathleen to interpret and

act upon. Collectively, by focusing the blame on the abuser, they framed this client ’s

behavior as typical of a victim whose abuser denies her “ power and control” over her life —

making her eligible for more sympathy.

When they had exhausted the sympathy generated by blaming abusers, SAFE staff members looked elsewhere for potential causes of their clients’ “difficult ” behavior. In one

case, Heather found an unlikely source: her client ’s mother. The client had accused Heather,

in court, of forcing her to file for a protective order against her will — a serious offense.

Even as Heather was being scolded by the judge in open court, she did not blame the client

or express frustration. Afterwards, Heather explained how thinking about the mother ’s

influence on her client allowed her to “forgive and forget ” the incident in court.

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 109



Heather ’s client stretched the advocates’ abilities to generate sympathy to the limit

because of the egregiousness of the “difficult ” behavior. Public accusations like this

harmed the advocates’ reputation in court. However, redirecting blame onto the mother

in this case was relatively easy given that Heather ’s explanation fit seamlessly with the

dominant cultural image of victims of DV and SA as compliant and impressionable.Given the client ’s history of abuse and subsequent vulnerability, Heather explained that

she was in no position to object to her mother ’s pressure. As a result, she believed it

was reasonable — in some ways preferable — that the client blame her rather than her

own mother. Heather explained that she had expected early on that the mother might

“ push” the client to file for a protective order before she was emotionally prepared to

confront her abuser in court. Deflecting blame away from the client enabled Heather to

generate sympathy for her client, and take pride in her ability to withstand the judge ’s

criticism.

There’s a point when victims are ready [to file for a protective order] and whenthey’re not...and she’s not ready yet....That ’s okay, it is part of the job…it takes the

heat off [the client] and it makes it easier, especially with abusers, to say that we

made them do it, we made them take out the charges....It ’s frustrating [smiles], but

that ’s what an advocate does.

By not putting up a fight in court, Heather believed she had provided a valuable service.

Word of the case spread quickly in the SAFE office. Other staff members worried that

the client ’s accusation might have upset Heather. One by one, they poked their heads into

the advocates’ office and asked Heather how she was feeling. When other staff members

began to express frustration at the client, Heather reminded them of her earlier suspicionsthat the client ’s mother did not understand the value of waiting until her daughter was ready

to initiate legal procedures. Throughout the rest of the office, other staff members

consistently expressed their admiration at Heather ’s ability to take “heat ” for her client.

Ironically, being berated by a judge enhanced Heather ’s status in the office that day. Given

the opportunity to contradict her client in public, she refused. Her public display of

sympathy (stoically accepting blame) bolstered her claims to a moral identity.

Reconstructing Clients’ Victim-Biographies

Although deflecting blame from clients for their “difficult ” behavior was usually sufficient to generate sympathy for them, some cases called for additional measures. Often, staff

members lacked sufficient information to understand why their clients behaved the way

they did. In response, they wove a generic narrative of victimhood between the bits and

pieces of information they did have. The end result of this biographical work (Holstein and

Gubrium 2000) was the reconstruction of what I call a “victim-biography.” They did this by

“selecting and highlighting the defining aspects” (Holstein and Gubrium 2000, p. 157) of their

clients’ past to reformulate a story line consistent with an “ideology of victimization” (Best

1997, p. 10) that depicted their clients — in spite of their recent behavior — as innocent

and blameless.This biographical work most often occurred when clients failed to show up for

appointments or court hearings. Their absence evoked feelings inconsistent with staff

member ’s moral identity. For example, Andrea, a counseling intern who spent 6 months at

SAFE as part of her graduate degree program, became discouraged when her client

continued to skip her counseling sessions: “I don’t take it personally, but it is kind of

frustrating.... The reason I’m doing this is to help people, and [the client] is not allowing me

110 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



to help [her].” Soon after, however, Andrea was able to transform her frustration into

sympathy. She did this by framing her client ’s behavior as typical of all clients:

I think it is just the nature of the clientele...they are in crisis, and they are dealing with

their immediate concerns. A lot of these women have had different experiences in life

[than me]...abuse and putdowns....They don’t believe that anything good is going to

happen [to them].

Without a precise explanation for her client ’s behavior, she inserted a generic one. This

provided a context for Andrea to act upon her feelings, allowing her to generate sympathy — and

affirm her moral identity in the process.

The more “difficult ” the behavior, the more extensive the repair work to the client ’s

victim-biography. In one case, Jesse (an advocate) began to lose her ability to forgive a

client ’s outbursts over the phone. She took a call on the crisis hotline, but put down the

receiver without a word a few minutes later. She looked confused and frustrated. The client

had hung up on her. Shaking her head, Jesse told me that Meg and Kelly had warned her

that this was a “draining client.” I asked Jesse to explain what this meant to her:

I mean, the client first says that she needs to go to a doctor ’s appointment because of

an eye problem, and later she says that she has chest pains. I ’ve taken first aid classes

before and I know that chest pains are more serious than an eye infection, so I said

she should call 911 if she has chest pains, and she hung up on me.

It became clear that Jesse’s patience was waning with this client. In the weeks before the

hang-up, the client had been calling repeatedly to request transportation to and from

doctors’

appointments. Jesse, and the other advocates, began to complain that it was becoming more difficult to “feel sorry” for this client because she was so demanding. A

week after the hang up, Jesse was given a message to call the client; she let out a deep

breath and exclaimed — with a mix of humor and frustration —“Someone save me from [this

client]!” She did not return the call. From Jesse’s standpoint, her sympathy reserves for this

client were near depletion.

To generate additional sympathy, Jesse and her co-workers began to reconstruct the

client ’s victim-biography. Specifically, the advocates went back through the client ’s file and

re-interpreted her outbursts alongside a generic narrative of victims’ resilience and

persistence. The client had a compelling history of abuse. Her eye infection, for example,

was a result of being hit in the face while being raped by two men. Her transportation issueswere caused by her poverty and her rural address far from public transportation. She had

asked her landlord for help when she felt afraid, but he responded with a threat to evict her

if she kept calling the police. Jesse still characterized her as “draining,” yet this label began

to take the form of a symbolic badge of honor. Rather than diminish her claims to

sympathy, her hang-ups and outbursts were now seen as evidence of her perseverance —

thus offering an explanation for why she kept asking staff members for more and more

help. In the end, Jesse was able to interpret the client ’s behavior as “difficult,” but

understandable — and, in some ways, admirable.

In the end, Jesse called the shelter and asked them to admit the client. Because she hadcontinued to help the client (albeit with less patience), Jesse was able to take some

satisfaction from her work with the client: “well, at least there is some resolution here...at

least I’ve passed her on to someone else; so yes, I do feel better. ” After reconstructing her

client ’s victim-biography, Jesse was then able to continue the flow of sympathy for her

client. Jesse’s renewed feelings — especially after facing such “difficult ” behavior — served

as evidence to others that she was still a caring and compassionate person.

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 111



Refusing Sympathy

Staff members believed that their ability to sympathize with their clients set them apart as

good and moral people. When clients behaved in ways that put their claims to sympathy in

doubt, generating sympathy was their first response. However, as “sympathy entrepre-neurs,” they also “create moral boundaries distinguishing the sympathy-worthy from those

undeserving of sympathy” (Clark 1997, p. 125). This meant that SAFE staff members

sometimes had to decide who was “undeserving” of sympathy: this posed the greatest threat

to their moral identity.

Refusing sympathy was neither an easy choice for staff members nor one that they took

lightly. Yet, they saw unlimited gifts of sympathy in the face of overly “difficult ” behavior

as problematic. From their perspective, putting limits on how much they were willing to

forgive preserved the value of their displays of sympathy. As a result, the advocates and

counselors at SAFE justified their lack of sympathy on the basis of their clients’ failure to

comply with the implicit micro-hierarchy between service provider and recipient or their

clients’ inability to display the emotions expected of victims. They believed their refusals of

sympathy in these cases were in their clients’ best interests. They saw continued gifts of

sympathy in the face of persistent “difficult ” behavior as a disservice, and ultimately non-

“empowering.” Thus, they affirmed their moral identity not in spite of their refusal of

sympathy, but rather because of it.

Enforcing Micro-Hierarchy

Although the advocates and counselors cast themselves as equals to their clients, Clark (1987, 1997) has found that sympathy typically flows downward in hierarchical arrange-

ments. As Best (1997) argues, becoming a “victim” is a downward move in status.

Consequently, accepting sympathy usually obligates the recipient to reciprocate with

displays of gratitude and deference (Clark 1987, p. 300). On the surface, this prerequisite

for emotional exchange would appear counter-intuitive to the advocates and counselors’

moral identity. In trainings and hypothetical discussions, they claimed that their gifts of

sympathy were unconditional, regardless of how their clients’ behaved. In practice, as long

as clients’ “difficult ” behavior stayed within limits, the expectation that clients conform to

an implicit micro-hierarchy went ignored (for similar findings, see Loseke [1992, p. 130]).

Yet, the existence of such a micro-hierarchy — even if unacknowledged — was still there.Breaking the agency’s rules came to be seen as a lack of respect for the administrators of

those rules. In response, the advocates and counselors began setting limits on how much

they were willing to tolerate from clients. When clients refused those terms, staff members

no longer saw themselves as obligated “to feel sorry” for them.

The advocates and counselors at SAFE were hesitant to treat their clients as subordinates. As

Holden (1997) found, telling clients what to do runs counter to an egalitarian identity. No one

joined SAFE to become “rule enforcers” (Loseke 1992, p. 123). As a result, staff members

were careful to avoid appearing too quick to judge or disdainful of their clients. Instead, they

proceeded cautiously before declaring a client ’

s behavior to be out of bounds. Before theywould make such an accusation, they often went to their supervisor, Kelly, or other staff

members for confirmation of their doubts. I never observed anyone at SAFE unilaterally label

a client as disrespectful or undeserving of sympathy. Staff members always sought a second,

third, and sometimes fourth opinion to confirm their suspicions that their client was unwilling

to abide by staff members’ expectations.

112 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



The more a client had suffered in the past, the more the advocates and counselors were

willing to wait before enforcing a micro-hierarchy. One SAFE client, for example, became

well known among DV and SA agencies in the region for lobbying state legislators to

enhance the penalty for non-fatal strangulation (making it a felony crime). The client, a

poor white woman, had been brutally assaulted by her abuser, and her bruised-laden photosserved as compelling evidence in support of the new law. Staff members often referred to

the client as the “ poster child” of the new statute. Afterwards, SAFE advocates secured a

scholarship for her to attend a community college. Within months, however, the client

relapsed into illegal drug use and moved in with a new abusive partner, a man whose past

SAFE staff members knew well and had warned her about. Later, the client stopped

attending classes, leaving her scholarship unused. In light of her past injuries and suffering,

staff members initially labeled her decisions as unintentional “mistakes”; once they began

to add up, though, staff members began to set clear limits, thus bringing the micro-hierarchy

to light.

When staff members believed there was no end to the client ’s infractions, they began to

make explicit their expectations and the consequences for violating them. For example,

when, a sheriff ’s deputy warned Meg that the client was selling drugs again, Meg simply

shrugged her shoulders. She explained that she had warned this client time and time again.

Typically, the advocates and counselors do not issue ultimatums to the victims they are

trying to help, but this client had exceeded their limits. Soon after, staff members began to

suspect she was using her suffering to get money from SAFE. The next time the client

asked for rent assistance, Jesse doubted her motives and asked Cathleen, “Is she still in

crisis?” To which Cathleen replied, “ Not really, but she pretends like she is for money.”

Weeks later, the client was caught selling drugs and sent to jail. When a sheriff ’s deputy

told Meg and Lisa “she’s in jail now, and she deserves to be in jail,” they both nodded

quietly in agreement. Staff members did not reach out to the client in jail (as they typically

did with other clients).

A new drug conviction, a new relationship with a known abuser, and using SAFE money

for drugs proved too much for staff members. In response to her persistent “difficult ”

behavior, they enforced the unspoken micro-hierarchy between staff member and client;

subsequently, as the client defied their limits, they saw their refusal of sympathy as

justified. Staff members now saw the client as manipulative (“she pretends...for money”)

and framed her behavior as not only as counter-productive, but also as disrespectful.

Although speaking of a client in this way could call their moral identity into question, theysaw unlimited gifts of sympathy as potentially more dangerous. From their perspective,

continuing to offer sympathy to this client risked their reputation with local law

enforcement which could hinder their ability to help other clients.

Enforcing the micro-hierarchy between staff members and clients also helped preserve

the value of sympathy within the organization. Even if staff members saw their clients as

blameless for their original victimization, they still held them to account for their

willingness to work on their own behalf afterwards (i.e., take their medication, show up for

appointments, display effort). SAFE staff members believed that setting limits on how

much difficult behavior they were willing to tolerate was in the interest of all clients (and, by extension, all victims of DV and SA). They worried that if clients could receive

unlimited gifts of sympathy no matter how badly they behaved, then what symbolic

gestures would be left to offer to clients who were not as “difficult ” in the face of adversity?

Similar to the experience of Holden’s (1997) egalitarian volunteers, dictating the terms

of acceptable behavior was difficult for SAFE staff members. Even though they framed

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 113



their relationships with clients as cooperative, they became frustrated when clients were not

willing to do their “fair share.” Jen, a counselor, expected effort on the part of her clients,

even if it was minimal. When dealing with a client who had stopped taking her medications,

she said: “If you’re not taking your meds, we are really wasting our time here.” For another

client who kept missing appointments, Jen eventually stopped trying to get the client toreschedule:

I kept putting my hand out there farther and farther and she wasn ’t meeting me

halfway. Instead of it being fifty-fifty, it was more like sixty-forty or seventy-thirty.

At this point, I just had to back off if she [was not] putting in the effort.

On the surface, “fifty-fifty” does not indicate a micro-hierarchy. Yet, it was Jen who set

the terms of their relationship, not the client. In Jen’s mind, there was a good reason for

this: letting a client dictate the conditions of their therapeutic relationship was unhealthy.

Although she framed this arrangement with the rhetoric of “empowerment ” at SAFE — or

helping the client to help herself — it was Jen who decided how the client should behave.

Rather than hurt her identity claims, such a refusal of sympathy bolstered Jen ’s claims to a

moral identity: she “empowered” her clients; she did not coddle them.

Identifying Clients’ Inappropriate Emotional Displays

Doubting a client ’s claim to victimhood put the advocates and counselors at SAFE in a

difficult predicament. They saw themselves as the last line of defense for victims of DV and

SA — willing to believe their clients when no one else would. They understood that claims

to victimhood were hard to verify. SAFE staff members defined abuse as denying someone“ power and control” over their life. As a result, physical scars or bruises were not

necessarily required because instances of emotional and verbal abuse leave no marks.

However, in those cases, staff members did look to their clients’ emotional displays to

authenticate their claims to victimhood. Despite their eagerness to believe their clients, staff

members did require some evidence (albeit small) that their clients were, in fact, “real”

victims.

Hochschild (1983) conceptualizes feeling rules as subcultural norms outlining the type,

direction, and intensity of emotions people should feel under particular conditions. Above, I

have outlined what emotional responses SAFE staff members expected of themselves. Yet,

clients have their own set of feeling rules, too — that is, if they want to persuade others that they are victims. At SAFE, when clients claimed recent abuse and anticipated more, staff

members expected some measure of fear (even if they were flexible in regards to its degree

and consistency). They also expected anger, as long as it was primarily directed toward

their abusers — not staff members. Staff members believed that continuing to offer sympathy

when they could not confirm their clients’ victimization could harm not only their

reputation as advocates and counselors, but also that of the agency and the DV and SA

movement as a whole. Thus, counter-intuitively, refusing sympathy in these cases served as

an indicator of their moral identity.

SAFE staff members still believed they were willing to excuse their clients’

breaches of feeling-rules more than outsiders. As Dunn (2001) and Leisenring (2006) have found,

victims often express emotions that run counter to an “ideal” version of victimhood. The

advocates and counselors understood this and took it into account when evaluating their

clients’ emotional displays. In one case, the advocates and counselors were confused by a

Latina client ’s emotional display. She had accused her partner of recently assaulting her,

but, after her hearing in court, Meg began to doubt her: “The thing that makes her different

114 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



from most of our clients is that she just isn’t afraid of him.... I basically told her she wasn’t

eligible for a [protective order].” After hearing a description of her behavior, Cathleen (also

an advocate) confirmed Meg’s analysis: “Is she really fearful of him? If so, why is she

trying to contact him?” After observing their client repeatedly violate the feeling rules of

victimhood, they began to question her identity claims.Despite their skepticism, Meg and Cathleen referred the client to the shelter. Again, they

were hesitant to cut off the flow of sympathy without ample evidence to support their

decision. They did not expect all clients to express fear at all times. As Dietz and Martin

(2007) have found, women of color are less likely to express fear in response to abuse.

However, after a few days in the shelter, the client began to display anger and aggression

towards the other residents. Shelter staff members were not entirely surprised by this, either.

They were aware — as Garfield (2005) found — that abused women from marginalized

groups often express anger in response to abuse instead of fear. Yet, when the client gave

her abuser the shelter ’s phone number — one of the worst violations of shelter rules — the

shelter staff members were left scrambling for ways to explain her behavior. Days later,

staff members began to discuss whether they should remove her from the shelter.

Weeks later, however, new information surfaced and staff members began to employ

their sympathy generating strategies. The client, who was 6 months pregnant, became

delusional and threatened suicide. Staff members called 911 and the client spent 2 weeks in

a psychiatric ward. When she returned to the shelter, Rebecca explained that hospital

psychiatrists had prescribed her medication: “It was good for her to get a diagnosis.”

Quickly, the perception of the client changed; staff members framed her inappropriate

emotional displays as a product of a mental disorder. She became a victim again. They

readmitted her into the shelter.Weeks later, however, she began to express a new set of feelings inconsistent with

victimhood. She voluntarily left the shelter and reunited with her former abuser. Typically,

staff members could understand clients’ decisions to return to their abusers as evidence of

coerced dependence or a lack of other options. Yet, this explanation soon fell short. The

client appeared happy and was now engaged to marry her former abuser. In the advocates ’

office, when Cathleen and Jesse heard the news, they both shook their heads in

disappointment. They appeared unwilling to engage in another round of sympathy

generation for the client. Jesse joked about how she might approach the client and try to

stop the wedding: “ No! Take [the ring] off. Throw it away!” Joking at a client ’s expense

was rare at SAFE. However, in this case, their initial skepticism about the case, combinedwith her disruptive behavior in the shelter (even if the product of a mental disorder), proved

to be too much. When staff members no longer considered her to be an authentic victim (a

status that entitled her to sympathy), the client was no longer shielded from criticism (or

sarcasm). Instead of working to improve her situation, staff members believed the client

was doing the opposite and that additional sympathy might only make matters worse. Thus,

her inappropriate feelings (lack of fear, anger towards other shelter residents, and affection

for her former-abuser) became the justification for their refusal of sympathy. As a result,

they believed that saving their energy (and sympathy) was in the best interest of this client

and all their clients —

helping them affirm their moral identity.

Conclusion

I analyze the generation and refusal of sympathy at SAFE to show how identity and

emotion management are interdependent processes. For those who claim a moral identity,

Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119 115



whether they be advocates and counselors, “good” Christians (Wolkomir 2006), or

homeless shelter volunteers (Holden 1997), knowing how and when to offer sympathy is a

key part of their “identity code” (Schwalbe and Mason-Schrock 1996). I do not claim that

these findings are generalizable to all staff members in agencies that assist victims of DV

and SA. Instead, I outline four “generic processes” (Schwalbe et al. 2000) that explain how people who claim a moral identity, under specific circumstances, are able to point to their

decisions to generate or refuse sympathy as indicators of that identity. These processes offer

a few answers for how individuals and groups address and negotiate an emotional

subculture with feeling rules that sometimes conflict with their identity code. Future

research may identify more. An increased understanding of these generic processes can help

establish “analytic generalizability” (Becker 1990, p. 240) regarding how and why

particular groups use emotions to accomplish their identities.

The symbiotic relationship between SAFE staff members and their clients also offers a

useful context for studying the intersection between identity and emotion management.

Staff members needed victims to show themselves and others that they are caring and

compassionate people, and victims need advocates and counselors to authenticate their

claims of suffering to outsiders. As a consequence, a breach of feeling rules from one party

could affect the identity claims of the other. Therefore, highlighting identities which must

coordinate with specific counterparts — teachers and students, doctors and patients, police

officers and criminals — may offer a useful platform for future research on how identity-

pairs respond when one provokes the “wrong” emotions in the other.

Identity dilemmas offer a unique opportunity to conduct this type of research. The

moments when identity claims are called into question — either by the subject or their

audience —

require more than just altering behavior.“

Feeling”

the wrong way poses a subtle, but more challenging obstacle to identity affirmation. Yet this hurdle also offers

opportunities. Interactions with “difficult ” clients served as focal points to show that

their work was more than a job, it was a vocation. Staff members believed that anyone

could offer sympathy to “ideal” clients (even if such clients were rare). To them,

feeling and displaying sympathy to a client who accused them of lying in open court,

as Heather experienced, was a truer test of their virtuosity. Yet, not all moral identity

dilemmas can be solved by simply generating more sympathy. Although we expect

people to align their feelings with the “emotional subculture” (see Clark 1997, pp. 185 –

193) as Wolkomir found (2006), how can we explain instances when participants refuse

to feel as they believe they typically “should”? How can willful violations of feeling rulesalso be pathways for identity affirmation? Identity dilemmas provide valuable data to

answer these questions.

One potential explanation for why SAFE staff members believed it was okay to refuse

sympathy is that group leaders grant others permission to feel the “wrong” way. It is true

that Kelly, the co-director, held considerable influence over the feeling rules of the SAFE

office (through selective hiring, training, and management procedures), yet this answer falls

short in two related ways. First, organizational policies are not enough to dictate feeling

rules. Managers can exert only so much control when it comes to how employees should

manage their emotions (Clark 1997; Copp 1998; Garot 2004; Leidner 1999). Second, groupmembers uphold, amend, and modify their feeling rules to preserve the general meaning

and salience of their shared identity. At SAFE, answers to questions on how to respond

emotionally to “difficult ” clients were constantly subject to negotiation and modification

among staff members. As a result, decisions to generate or refuse sympathy were typically

made after lengthy consultations with others. With each encounter with “difficult ” clients,

staff members remade the meaning of their moral identity by adding exceptions and

116 Qual Sociol (2011) 34:101 – 119



loopholes to their feeling rules as long as they could believe that they had the interests of

their clients at heart — even if this meant cutting off the flow of sympathy to some of them.

To analyze decisions of whether to elicit or suppress particular emotions, researchers

must focus their attention on the local logic of those being studied. SAFE staff members

believed that gifts of sympathy — even when difficult to evoke — increased the likelihoodthat clients would seek services (if needed) in the future, even when they made mistakes.

From the perspective of the advocates and counselors, expressing frustration or

disappointment with clients might turn them away, increase their shame, or prevent them

from seeking services in the future. Refusing sympathy for clients also had its own logic.

Being discerning about their gifts of sympathy preserved their value. Setting limits on how

much sympathy they were willing to offer and when, helped preserve the reputation of the

organization as a whole. Refusing sympathy in some cases also helped staff members

maintain their claims to outsiders of being honest brokers of information when they acted

on behalf of their clients. They were aware that critics, particularly in the criminal justice

system, were eager to paint them as zealous advocates with little regard for the truth. By

showing that they were able to disagree with clients — sometimes even dispute their claims —

they believed they were better able to help all victims of DV and SA (not just SAFE’s clients).

Ironically, under this rationale, disbelieving some clients served the greater good by making it

more likely that other claims of abuse would be given thoughtful consideration.

Those who work at agencies that assist victims of DV and SA will not be surprised by

the existence of “difficult ” clients and staff members’ identity dilemmas. This problem does

not have a simple solution. One tactic worth consideration for those in this line of work is to

follow Lamb’s advice (1999) and reconceptualize the meaning of “victim” to more

accurately reflect the behavior and experiences of actual clients. DV and SA agency policiesthat construct an image of “ pure victims” (Davies et al. 1998, p. 17) do so for a reason: they

are competing against unsympathetic images in the prevailing dominant culture that depict

their clients as passive — or worse, willing — participants in their own abuse. Yet, the

empirical reality of clients who seek services at DV and SA agencies rarely aligns with the

implicit image contained within the training manuals and handouts at agencies like SAFE.

Reconstructing the image of DV and SA victims is one possible solution, albeit a difficult

task for overworked advocates and counselors struggling to keep up with the crisis hotline

and walk-in clients. A more practical solution would be to redouble efforts to prepare staff

members for moral identity dilemmas and develop new strategies on how to manage them. I

have outlined four generic strategies that emerged organically, but these need not be theonly ones. In either case, understanding these dilemmas as social problems — rather than

individual ones — is the first step.

Acknowledgements The author thanks Sherryl Kleinman, Allison Hurst, Michelle Wolkomir, Jennifer

Dunn, and the anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful suggestions and comments on previous drafts of this

paper.

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Kenneth H. Kolb is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Furman University in Greenville, SC. He is the

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